


Experience and Conditioning: An Account Taken from the Private Papers of Dr. John H. Watson

by Lefaym



Series: The Unpublished Papers of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late in life, Watson looks back upon the early intimacies he shared with Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experience and Conditioning: An Account Taken from the Private Papers of Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Miss Winterhill for the primary beta and Lionessvalenti for the secondary read-through.
> 
> This fic can be read independently, or as a follow-up to [An Unpublished Monograph, by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, upon the Subject of Overcoming Arbitrary Self-Directed Prejudice in one Dr. John H. Watson](http://archiveofourown.org/works/77711)

Even now, my cheeks grow warm when I recall the passion I felt at those early embraces between Sherlock Holmes and myself; the friction of skin against skin as our mouths pressed together with the heat of a furnace—a heat so intense that it easily dulled the pain of those wounds from Afghanistan that still troubled me. It seems remarkable to me, that before this day I have made no record of these events, yet of course I could not, for should my notes have fallen into malicious hands, much damage might have been done. As I reach the end of my life, however, I feel the absence of these incidents from my accounts most keenly, and as I have no living friend or relative who might suffer as a result of their discovery, I feel compelled to record them here.

The day to which my mind now returns lies some forty years in the past, mere months after Sherlock Holmes and I had first taken lodgings in Baker Street. For myself this was a time of both great joy and deep turmoil, as I sought to reconcile the satisfaction I found in Holmes' company with the deeply held fear that the intimacies we shared—and the intimacies I had shared with many men before him—were borne of depravity. Holmes' experience, I found, was the inverse of my own; although his practical familiarity with acts of physical intimacy was limited, his logical mind ensured that he felt no qualms relating to our social conditioning on such matters.

The discrepancies in both our experiences and conditioning were never so apparent to me as during the incident which I am now about to relate. I cannot recall the exact date of the event, for it occurred between cases, though I know that it took place approximately six weeks after we had become intimate in the most personal way. As was often the case between investigations, I noted that Holmes was in danger of falling into a state of lethargy, and I sought to distract him, hoping that in the absence of intellectual stimulation, physical stimulation might suffice.

I would learn, in the years that followed, that this method was not always to be successful; that Holmes would eventually turn to the cocaine bottle when his mind was allowed to languish, but on the day of which I speak, the syringe and Holmes' seven percent solution lay in the undiscerned future, and Holmes was easily diverted from his melancholy by my attentions. I reminded of him of his success in solving our most recent case, and expressed admiration for his methods, and this flattery inevitably led us to his bedroom, where we swiftly dispensed with our clothing and soon found ourselves tangled amongst the sheets.

When I cast my mind back, I recall that I had some vague plan of bringing Holmes to completion between my thighs, for I enjoyed seeing the usually staid detective come undone when I used such methods upon him, and afterwards, I might have sought my own release in his hand. Holmes, however, quickly put an end to those plans, for when I sought to titillate his senses by running my lips along his shoulder, he turned his head so that he might whisper into my ear:

"My dear Watson," he said, "I should very much like to—" Holmes broke off, and rather than finish his sentence, he took one of my hands, drawing it between his legs and then behind, in such a way as to leave no doubt as to the nature of his request.

Holmes' actions sent a jolt through me that was delight and fear in equal parts. I cannot deny that part of me had desired this since the commencement of physical relations between us, yet I had held back from suggesting it, for—

"You are aware, Holmes," I said, pulling back from him, "that what you suggest, among all that we have already done, is the act which, if discovered, should result in the most severe penalties for both of us?"

Holmes looked up at me, his gaze clear. "I should not have suggested it had I thought there was any chance of discovery," he said.

I knew that Holmes spoke truly, yet my mind was not quieted. I was reminded suddenly of my early days in the military, and the hours I had spent in darkened dens where men did not share their names for fear of exposure.

"Ah, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "It pains me that I have led you into this—I fear that I shall yet cause the ruination of your reputation and your character! When I think about—"

I stopped speaking abruptly, for Holmes had placed a hand across my mouth. "You are speaking most irrationally, Watson," he said. "I have been led by nothing but my own inclinations, and my reasons for acting on those inclinations are perfectly sound."

Though I had stood firm at Maiwand, I trembled at that moment, for I found myself engaged in a battle of a different sort. I am sure that Holmes perceived my turmoil, for he allowed his hand to slip from my mouth and onto the side of my neck, and the warmth of his long, careful fingers upon my skin gave me courage.

"If you wish it," I said quietly, "then I will do this thing."

"I do wish it," said he. "I wish it very much."

I was overcome by the simple sincerity in Holmes' voice then, and I lowered my head to his and kissed him in as unrestrained a fashion as I had ever done. Only one thought now held me back, and I shared it with Holmes when at last, I drew my lips away from his.

"Am I correct in assuming," I asked, "that you have never before engaged in this act which you have requested of me?"

Holmes' lips turned upwards into a small, wry smile. "For once, my dear Watson," he said, "you have deduced correctly."

I felt my breath catch in my throat at the confirmation of my suspicions. "You—you are aware," I said, "that there may be—there may be some pain if you are unaccustomed to the sensation."

Holmes gave a short, sharp nod. "I am aware," he said. "But it is of little concern. In this matter, I trust you implicitly."

I found that I had to swallow then, for I was not unmoved by his simple words. "It may—it may go easier for you if you turn onto your front."

Now Holmes shook his head. "No, Watson. I should like to observe your face throughout; I relish the chance to learn more of your character in this way. I assure you that I am flexible enough to accommodate you."

For a moment I thought to protest, but I stayed my tongue, for I was sure that Holmes' lack of practical experience must be countered by the depths of his theoretical knowledge. Had any doubts remained to me as to the thoroughness of Holmes' research on this subject, they were dispelled when he next opened his mouth.

"Now, Watson," he said, "if you will be so good as to open the drawer within my bedside table, you shall find within a small vial of olive oil, which will undoubtedly be of great benefit to both of us this day."

"Why, Holmes!" I ejaculated. "You have thought of everything."

"It was a simple matter to anticipate our needs," he said modestly, although I could tell he was pleased at my response.

How do I find the words to convey what followed? It hardly seems possible to do it justice, bound as I am by the limitations of the English language. I have sworn to myself, however, to give a complete account of events, and so I must endeavour to do them justice with the limited resources at my disposal.

Holmes was as relaxed as I have ever seen a man as I used my fingers, slick with oil, to press inside of him, in preparation for what was to come. My knowledge of anatomy served me well in this, for I knew exactly which way to bend my knuckles in order to provoke a response of great pleasure. Only here did Holmes' actions betray his inexperience, for he gave a sudden gasp of surprise when I located that most sensitive of glands within him. Yet even through that, I could see his brilliant mind working, cataloguing each new sensation with the same precision he might use in his studies of clay or tobacco.

"Holmes," I said, when I felt the moment was right, "would you like me now to replace my fingers with—with—"

Holmes saved me from the embarrassment of articulating the act I was about to perform. "Yes, Watson," said he. "I would find that most agreeable."

I readied myself carefully with more oil, and pushed Holmes' thighs back as far as I could without causing him discomfort. Then, placing the weight of my body upon my good leg, I pressed forward into him. I felt him clench tightly around me, and though the sensation of it threatened to overwhelm my reason, I kept my eyes firmly on Holmes' face, where signs of tension were suddenly evident.

"If you would like me to stop—" I said.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Holmes replied, and though his voice was strained, I could not doubt his sincerity.

I allowed my hands to trail a small way down his thighs, and happily, I felt his muscles return to their former relaxed state. When I saw Holmes' lips part slightly, I knew that he had crossed the threshold from pain into pleasure, and I pushed myself further into him.

It had been my intent to move slowly, but as Holmes pressed back against me, it became clear that he did not desire caution, and we soon achieved a quick rhythm between us that reminded me of nothing so much as one of the livelier tunes that Holmes had played for me upon his violin. Holmes' hands ran quickly across my back, his long thin fingers teasing at my skin, as though my body was his instrument.

As we approached our crescendo, Holmes raised his hands to my shoulders, and pulled me down to him, demonstrating most clearly that he had not misled me with regard to his flexibility. Our mouths came together in a kiss of the most passionate sort, and moments later, Holmes cried out against me as I felt the warmth of his seed spread between us. The knowledge of Holmes' release was too much for me, and I found myself adding my own cry to his as a powerful shock coursed its way through my entire frame. I spent myself inside his body and collapsed trembling on top of him, utterly worn out by my exertions.

We remained tangled thus until Holmes, with surprising tenderness, turned me onto my side so that he might seek out a scrap of cloth, which he used to clean both of us.

Finally, he spoke. "I must thank you, Watson," he said. "Our activities have certainly proved most instructive."

"I do hope, Holmes," I said wryly, "that this was more than a mere experiment to you."

Holmes chuckled, though not unkindly. "Ah, Watson," he said, "what is life but one grand experiment?"

In my exhausted state, I could not think of a suitable reply, but I soon knew that none was needed, for after he spoke, Holmes lay back on the bed once more, and took my hand in his own. He squeezed it gently, and I took comfort in the warmth of his palm against my own. I shifted slightly, that my head might rest against Holmes' shoulder, and closed my eyes in pursuit of sleep.

It seems strange now, to recall the contentment I felt as I lay there beside him, my thoughts untainted by the memories of the professor who had advised marriage as an antidote to illicit desires, or by fears that the great talents of my friend and lover would be lost to morphine and cocaine. Throughout the course of all that we shared, there were few such moments like it, and I make record of it now because, although it demonstrates little in the way of my friend's deductive skills, I should not like for it to be forgotten.


End file.
